


fever running through our veins

by erlkoenig



Series: Kink Bingo [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And Then Some, Finrod still thought of Bëor as Balan and you can pry this from my cold dead hands, M/M, Pre-Negotiated Kink, and in which I check off nine squares of my kink bingo card, in which Finrod can not stop talking so Balan takes matters into his own hands, intercrural sex and rock n' roll, ropes and blindfolds and gags oh my, safe safe and enthusiastically consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 16:17:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15634254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: “I promise you, I cannot see a thing. What sort of knots are these?” He pulls again, the rope rubbing and chafing his wrists already. “They are quite sturdy and — you’re making a rude gesture at me, aren’t you.”





	fever running through our veins

“I’m beginning to regret agreeing to this.” Findaráto says with a laugh, feels Balan hesitate and continues. “Not to say I don’t enjoy it to a degree, rather,” he tests the strength of the man’s handiwork, pulls at the soft rope binding his hand to the bedposts, “it’s impossible for me to touch you like this and you know how much I love that.”

Balan makes a soft noise, and Findaráto _feels_ the soft whisper of air against his face, the prickling of the skin as Balan waves his hand in front of the blindfold.

“I promise you, I cannot see a thing. What sort of knots are these?” He pulls again, the rope rubbing and chafing his wrists already. “They are quite sturdy and — you’re making a rude gesture at me, aren’t you.”

“So you _can_ see.”

Findaráto laughs. “No, but I know you.”

“Perhaps I shall gag you as well.” He can hear the smirk, and his pulse races, an answering flicker of a smile on his own face.

“Ah, but then however will I show you just how much I appreciate your attentions?”

There’s a brush of a touch, a trailing of fingertips over his still-clothed thigh and he shivers, gooseflesh breaking out over his stomach, the backs of his arms.

“There are other ways.” Those fingers move to the lacings of his breeches, pulling.  “The terms were _whatever I wish._ And as much as I do enjoy the sounds you make, what if I wish it?”

Findaráto shivers again, “I did agree.”

“Turn.”

When he doesn’t move fast enough — wiggling as best he can, bound as he is — strong hands grip his hips, pressing fingertips to the jut of bone there before flipping him. His arms stretch, wrists crossing, pulling the slack of the rope taught and it’s a delicious thrill, to be caught so.

Balan’s weight settles against his lower back, holds him down as the man drapes over him, the scratch of his beard against his shoulder the only warning before teeth nip at the back of his neck, light and teasing. There is a rustle of sound, and then silk is pressed to his lips and he parts them, lets the fabric slip just behind his teeth, secured. There’s a pause, a silent question and he gives a half-nod, _I am fine, this is fine, I promise._

Balan presses a kiss, soft and almost chase to the back of his neck again, down and to where it meets his shoulder and Findaráto cannot help the low, mewling sound that escapes him, muffled by silk. It turns into a yelp, a pant, as Balan’s teeth sink into the tender skin there. There will surely be a bruise there, and he tries to turn his head to see despite the blindfold.

It’s a swift movement, Balan’s weight there until it is not, the man raised up on his knees and then the muted _crack_ of Balan’s open palm across his clothed ass.

“Just lie still, _my lord_.” And oh, what that voice does to him, his breathing ragged already as Balan reaches over him to fluff a pillow beneath his chin. “Get comfortable, you’re going to be like this a bit. You said _whatever I wish,_ and I intend to take you up on that.”

 _Do it again_ , he wants to say, considers risking another _punishment_ for it, but settles down against the mattress, rests his cheek against the pillow, waiting.

Balan waits as well; warm, broad hands sliding over his back, down his spine to the curve of his hip, his ass, back up to his shoulders, appreciating. He closes his eyes behind the blindfold and lets himself _feel_ , every nerve alight already.

Back down to the waistband of his breeches, and then tugging, pulling them down to his knees and he is trapped again, legs caught in the tangle of clothing. Hands resume their quest, mapping every inch of exposed flesh, over the backs of his thighs and teasing between, a soft brush of the pads of Balan’s fingers and then pressing, harder and harder as if trying to leave their marks here. He shifts, trying to splay his legs and the touch is gone. He has half a moment to suck in a breath through the gag before a hand comes down hard on his thigh, gooseflesh raising here as the skin burns red.

Findaráto moans, and it is Balan’s turn now to breathe, a hiss between his teeth and the sounds echo like a heartbeat in the otherwise silence of the room.

“You like that,” it’s not a question but a purr, words like honey dripping from the back of a spoon, thumb rubbing small circles against his thigh. Balan shifts against him, and the next strike falls sharp on his other thigh, his body jerking, pulling against the restraints.

The next touch is feather soft and aches more than Balan’s open palm, a whisper of sensation against his heated, sensitive skin. Findaráto groans with it, wants to press back against those hands, to rut forward against the mattress, wants to beg for more, something, _anything_.

“Little good that scrap of silk is doing,” and Balan’s voice is rough, almost a growl, and how Findaráto wants to see him like this; those dark eyes on him, those soft lips parted and skin flushed. He can see it behind his eyelids, Balan’s mane of curls and coils falling past his shoulder, the years weaving silver threads into them. Balan pulls him from his musing, his dreaming, calloused hands spreading his thighs, his ass. A shift again, almost pulling away, and then a spit-slick thumb pressing against him and Balan continues to pull even as he pushes -- lightly, teasing -- pulls a needy sound from him, a whine from behind his teeth and he can’t help but push back against the man now.

_Please, oh pleasepleaseplease._

A mirror of touch, gentle circles, and then a teasing stretch, barely there and were his mouth not full he would beg, shameless. There has never been need for shame between them and tonight is no place to start. There’s a keen, low in his throat and Balan’s chuckle half-swallows the sound.

“ _M_ _y lord,_ ” Balan drawls, and Findaráto shifts beneath him, needing some other touch, some other friction, needing Balan to stop _teasing_ and to _take._ “Is there something you want?”

_You._

And then the weight of him is gone, the bed dipping as Balan moves away. There is a rustle of fabric and yet his own legs remain trapped. Balan returns to push and pull, his arms aching from the stretch as he is guided to his knees, chest pressed to the bed and settling his weight on his thighs. He is open, exposed, shivering in delight, anticipation, silk soaked as he pants around it.

Balan, warm and solid, cock sliding hot and heavy against the back of his thigh, fabric digging into his knees and he is caught, on display for the man. The smell of some sweet oil and then Balan sliding slick between his thighs, hands on his hips, holding him in place and it is Balan’s turn to moan now, low and ragged as he thrusts, lazily.

_Crack._

The blow smarts across his ass and he clenches his legs together tight. Balan’s rhythm is broken, desperate, a different kind of friction against Findaráto and how he loves this, helpless and at his lover’s mercy.

_The things we can do to each other._

He barely has time to think, bruises blooming over skin, bone, and he imagines for a moment that they are shaped like Balan’s fingerprints, the loops and whorls. He is marked, _claimed_ , and he wants _more._

And Balan gives, pulling him back and pushing him forward, thrusting faster, harder, rougher, almost there and Findaráto can hear it in every little noise, each growl, gasp, huff of breath. His own face is flushed, he’s biting into the silk hard enough to almost shred it, each thrust a tease and yet he’s so close himself, _so close_.

_Oh, the things you do to me my love._

Balan’s hand moves, tangling fingers in Findaráto’s hair and tugs, draws another hiss, another sharp moan that tears free of his throat and pushes past the silk between his teeth. Balan’s hips jerk, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering and his thighs are slick with it as Balan comes, caught tight between them, Findaráto’s name a prayer on his lips and it is Findaráto’s undoing. He is a mess, he is marked, he is  _claimed._

When he can breathe again, sucking lungfuls of wet air his shoulders fall heavy against the pillow and he lays there, a laugh bubbling within him. Balan stretches against him, his weight a comfort against his back and then the gag loosens, pulls free of his mouth.

“That was --”

“Mmm.”  
  
“You were --”  
  
“ _Mmm._ ” He stretches his aching jaw, a contented smile on his lips.

Balan brushes his sweaty hair from his neck, presses a kiss to the mark there, and then begins to untie the knots at his wrists.

 

**Author's Note:**

> moringottos.tumblr.com


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